(no subject)

:
This is my third attempt at log entry. I am several light-hours away from my abode, and the only computational device here is a "heads-on mind-link", an uncomfortable crown that measures electrical impulses directly from the forehead. My parents designed me to be resistent to telepathy (both neo- and traditional), so I am struggling to emit the impulses the device wants for, as best as I am able. (Again, I am reminded that I really must carry my phone when I travel.)

I let N___ talk me into coming here with him. He now sleeps next to me on his divan. I am reaching over, I am brushing my fingers across his ribs; the cold droplets of his methane sweat cling to my fingers. When I flick them away, the droplets slowly tumble in space not in an arc but in a straight line, until disappearing in the fog.

Here on Titan, I am terribly clumsy. When one is in micro-gravity, one tumbles all the time, and it always appears graceful. Under the crushing pull of giants, one is constantly aware of the danger of every step and is careful. But in the low pulls, each step is a giddy liberation, too much like walking to allow one to soar, too much like flight to let one stride with confidence. N___ thinks he is being a gentleman when he leads me along, but he does not feel my frills and hackles rise.

I latched on to his arm a few days ago, while in Glastonbury. In an ill-conceived effort to re-acquaint myself with my former social circles, I attended the Goddess Temple and their Samhain celebration. At first, I sighed with relief when there were no sign of the folks I found disagreeable; but later, I chewed on my lip when I realized just how little I knew about these folks, these friends of friends, these acquaintances of acquaintances.

Other folks always recognize me, and I rarely recognize them -- so begin the one-sided conversations. At the time, I had the energy for them. I reminded myself that I should not stare at the same walls, I should not keep the company of old ghosts. Samhain is for honoring the dead, for letting go of old things that no longer serve us. It is not about regret, it is about remembrance. I did not want to look back, I wanted to look around me, now.

Those old shackles on the otherwise free, my habits returned to me. I flexed my claws like a cat, I surveyed the offerings. When I hear others speak the rebuffs I myself have used, it squeezes my heart just a little bit. I have spent long time grousing about the pests who cannot take hints, about moths who pester my flame with their shadows ... and for myself to be burned in the same way? I would not want to be that which I deride. I do not desire to be a pest.

I am not appreciating the way I look at other folks. My standards of N___, W___, and R___, whose lips are ready with flattery, whose hips are always tinged with promise. Or the new faces whose names I cannot even recall, promising old delights but in new packages. My jaw hurts from the grinding of my teeth, I want to scream at them, to crush them under my mighty paws for the crimes of being who they are, for not being something else. Why are they so receptive to me yet so wrong for me? And why do I go to them?

Explosive coupling gives way to tired regret. I am developing bad habits. When I enter the bedroom, I am already noting the exits. What has happened to my romance? What has happened to my joy? Love is now a chore, a job, a duty. I express my glands and then I escape.

I do not like this score.

If I squint through the darkness, I can perceive the edges of our crater, through the fog that burbles up from the cryomagma lake. Somewhere beyond all that is a black river of a sky, where stars float. I want to be where the warmth is, I want to stand in the light.